


Serendipity

by standbygo



Series: NaNoWriMo 2013 One Word Prompt Challenge [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 17:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the circumstances leading to Sherlock and John meeting didn't happen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serendipity

**Author's Note:**

> NaNoWriMo One Word Prompt Challenge - "Serendipity" from Kim.

“Johnny, that’s the third month you’ve asked me.” Harry’s voice was gentle but her words stung.

“I know, Harry, I’m sorry. It’s just taking me a bit longer than I thought to get on my feet…”

“You can’t find work, can you? I know you’re trying, love, but no one’s hiring, are they? Not with…” Her gesture covered his cane, his shaking hand, the bags under his eyes. “All right, nosy big sister time. How much is your pension?”

He sighed, and told her.

“And how much are you paying for the bedsit?”

He told her.

“Jesus, Johnny. How do you eat?”

He said nothing.

“This can’t go on,” Harry said.

“I know it,” he muttered.

Harry reached across the table for his hand. “Johnny, I’m sorry. I can help out sometimes, but I just can’t do this much. I’m sorry.” She sat back and considered him. “Look, I’d need to talk to Clara, but why don’t you stop with us? There’s that fine extra room over the garage. We were going to rent it out, but you could stay there. The kids would be ecstatic to have Uncle John around full time.”

He carefully masked his face and voice while he told her, “I’ll think about it.”

 

 +

“Oh dear, Sherlock, if only you’d come to see me a month ago. I just let out the upper flat to a lovely couple. There’s another flat on this level though, come and see.”

Sherlock could smell the mould and the damp before Mrs. Hudson even opened the door. His head brushed against the upper frame of the door as he entered.

“It’s not furnished, of course, dear, but I’m sure we could scrounge some things for you.”

He gritted his teeth, but only while his back was turned. It was horrible, but if he lived with Mycroft any longer he could not be held responsible for his actions.

“How much, Mrs. Hudson?”

She told him.

He pressed his lips together and said, “I’ll think about it.”

 

+

_Croydon. Bloody Croydon_ , John thought, as he stumped through the park. Above the garage, how charming. And as much as he loved his nieces, he knew it would be a matter of time before he was the live-in babysitter – “Just the once, Johnny, we’ll be back by eleven at the latest.”

But he had to admit his choices were limited. Damn near none.

“John? John Watson?”

John turned and looked at the big man following him with a big smile. “Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together?”

“Oh yes, hello, Mike,” John said. He had a vague memory of the man, except…

“Yes, I know, I got fat,” Mike said amiably. “I heard you were abroad getting shot at, what happened?”

John felt the bitterness rise from his stomach. “Got shot.”

Mike’s face fell, and John groaned inwardly when he saw pity emerge on his face. “I’m sorry, John, that’s me sticking my foot in it. Look, shall we get lunch? A coffee?”

John hesitated, then realized with great certainty he could not handle one more minute of sympathy. “That’s kind, but I’ve an appointment, I’m afraid. Another time?”

 

 +

“Molly, you promised!”

“I know, Sherlock, but the family came and claimed his body and – Sherlock? Sherlock?”

+

John sat at the desk in the ugly bedsit, staring at his open laptop, hands folded at his mouth. Maybe if he pawned the laptop, he could get enough money to float for a while… Then he did the maths and realized that would keep him in tinned soup and tea and day old bread for another month, perhaps – six weeks if he cut out the bread.

He thought of the gun resting in the drawer beside him, and tried to remember what the point was to carrying on.

 

 +

“Right, that’s it, that’s enough, out you go!”

“What the hell, Lestrade?” Sherlock protested, trying to free his coat from the DI’s grip.

“I warned you, didn’t I? Insult my people one more time and you’re out, did I not say that, quite clearly, Sherlock?”

“Anderson-” Sherlock stopped himself, realizing that there was no way to finish that sentence without sounding like a stroppy ten year old. He drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster. “Fine,” he said loftily. “Call me when the next body shows up.”

He turned and walked away, already thinking of where he could look for the suitcase. He passed several officers and ducked under the police tape; no one watched him go.

 

+

John walked through Regent’s Park until he thought he could hear words tapped out by his footsteps and the squeak of his cane – “Lon-don, Lon-don, Lon-don.” Then he turned onto Marylebone and the song changed – “Croy-don, Croy-don, Croy-don.”

He felt himself fall into a decision. He would find a bank machine and take out what he could from his account – might come to forty pounds or so. He’d eat a damn good meal for the first time in ages, then he and the gun tucked into his waistband would take a walk down by the Thames and see if they could come to an agreement.

 

+

An hour later, his stomach contently working on digesting some truly fantastic pasta and a very nice wine, John was starting to feel better about life in general. He really should have done this a while ago – hard to have a positive outlook on life when your diet consists of tinned, salty starches.

Moving in at Harry and Clara’s might not be the end of the world. Their house was clean and bright, the kids weren’t brats. Perhaps pick up some locum work at the clinic there. And London was just a train ride away.

Nice restaurant, this, John thought as he tucked into his tiramisu.  The owner waited on the tables himself, an effusive and conscientious man. The man seated behind him seemed to be a regular, the owner was making quite a fuss over him.

John heard the man asking the owner for a glass of white wine. John realized that the man had been in the restaurant as long as he had, but had not ordered any food – the white wine was the first thing he had asked for – but instead had been sitting in silence, staring out the window. _Takes all kinds_ , he thought.

Suddenly he felt the splash of liquid over his right shoulder and across the side of his face. “The hell?” he spluttered. He turned to glare at the man, who seemed to have thrown the entire glass of Pinot Grigio over his face, spattering John in the process.

“Apologies,” the man said smoothly. “Angelo, if you would?”

The owner grinned happily, and grabbed the man by the lapels. “Out, you drunken sot! Out of my restaurant!” He threw the tall man out the door, shouting, “And don’t come back!”

Turning back into the restaurant, the owner’s officious demeanour immediately returned. “My great apologies, sir,” he said, wiping at John’s shoulder with a napkin.

“What the hell was that all about?” John said. He looked out the window at the man, now stumbling down the street. “Why did you throw him out? He’s not drunk, I was here the whole time and he didn’t-”

“Not to worry, sir,” said the owner. “My friend, he is on a case. He’s a big detective. He knows what he’s doing, I promise you.”

John and Angelo watched, fascinated, as the tall man talked to a cabbie for a few minutes, staggering slightly. After a moment, the cabbie got out of the car and manhandled the man into the back seat.

“Don’t worry, sir, he has it all under control, this is all part of the plan,” Angelo said.

But John saw the man’s hands grip the doorframe of the cab, just for a second, saw the knuckles whitening under the pressure of resistance.

“The plan’s gone wrong,” he said, and ran out the door.

+

Six hours later Sherlock and John were walking away from the flashing lights of the police cars.

“Can you walk all right?” John said. “You said he injected you with something?”

“Worn off now,” Sherlock replied. “I did have the situation under control, you know.”

“You’re an idiot,” John snapped.

Sherlock looked down at him curiously. “Where’s your cane?” he asked. “You had a cane before, at Angelo’s.”

John looked down with surprise at his right hand. “I… I left it behind, I suppose. I just ran after the cab without thinking about the cane.”

There was a long pause, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

“John Watson.”

They shook hands. John smiled, a bit tightly. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

“For what?” Sherlock sounded genuinely confused.

“Saving your life, idiot. You’re lucky I came along, lucky I saw you.”

Another long pause.

“Serendipitous,” Sherlock said, and smiled.

They walked along the street together, their feet creating a new rhythm.

 

  _End_

 

**Author's Note:**

> The "wine in his face" trick is from the Sherlock pilot.


End file.
